


The Road to Deva

by tei



Category: Cambridge Latin Course, Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-09
Updated: 2010-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tei/pseuds/tei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Quintus and Dumnorix (who is OBVIOUSLY not dead) pay a visit to Sherlock Holmes, who has been unceremoniously and without explanation dropped into Roman Britain.</p><p>Takes place in the gap in the North American "Green Book" (around stage 24, perhaps?) after Quintus and Dumnorix are overtaken by Salvius' soldiers and before Quintus arrives in Deva.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Deva

**Author's Note:**

  * For [booksnchocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=booksnchocolate), [sum_nemo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sum_nemo/gifts).



> I hope the formatting makes my intentions fairly clear, but in case it doesn't, here is the general idea: Bits of third-person narrative are divides into "Stages" à la Cambridge, each with one bit of (sub-standard, please point out to me when something makes no sense) Latin in them. There are also sections of first-person narrative under the familiar heading "Being a reprint from the reminisces of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army medical department". More notes at the end.

Stage 1

 

   Septimus looked at the man writhing on the ground and put his hand on his money-belt, to remind himself. He stayed absolutely still as his fellows poked the wounded man with the butts of their spears. 

  
  


   As the only native-born Briton in Salvius' personal army, the others probably wouldn't let him join in anyway. He had obtained the position through King Cogidubnus, a friend of his father's. Lately, Septimus had been hearing whispers about Cogidubnus. He had ignored them: he was a Roman now, and he had no need to pay attention to British kings. 

  
  


   Still. Sometimes he wondered just how Roman he really was. Wasn't he the one left out of all the men's private jokes? Wasn't he the one called "barbarian," only half jokingly? And he was certainly the only one who sent most of his earnings back to Londinium for his mother. 

  
  


   Now, Septimus watched the soldiers poking the dead or nearly-dead man and wished they could have more respect. 

  


  


_   This is money in your pocket, and in Mama's,_ he reminded himself. _Salvius pays well, and he's not as bad an employer as some._ He felt squeamish all the same. 

  
  


   "Oi!" Shouted their commander. "That's just one of them! Quintus Caecilius just slipped away while you were gloating, boys. You've only made more work for yourselves. He's probably headed for Londinium-- he's wounded, and he won't be able to make it to Deva without regrouping somewhere. Leave Dumnorix, our job's not done yet." He started off at a gallop, and Salvius' men followed him. 

  
  


   "Just adjusting my packs, I'll catch up," muttered Septimus to whoever heard. 

  
  


   As soon as his comerades disappeared in the trees, Septimus jumped down from his horse. _I earn the same whether this man dies or not,_ he thought grimly. _He certainly won't be kicking up any more trouble for Salvius in this state._ He kneeled beside the bleeding figure, watching his chest. It was moving, though feebly. 

  
  


   "Hey," said Septimus quietly. "Hey. Dumnorix, right? Dumnorix, can you hear me?"

  
  


   "Urrrnnnhgg," said Dumnorix.

  
  


   Quickly Septimus followed the paths of blood to their sources, and was pleased to discover that none of the wounds were fatal in themselves. Blood loss would be his biggest problem. Still. He began to tear strips off of Dumnorix's trousers and use them to bind the wounds. Within minutes the trousers reached only to his knees, but avant-garde fashion statements weren't really the greatest of the wounded man's worries. 

  
  


   When that was done, Septimus positioned himself behind Dumnorix and heaved him up, leaning him against his horse, which had wandered cautiously back to its master after the soldiers had ridden off. 

  
  


   Septimus extracted a length of rope from his pack. "You'll live, maybe," he said as he hoisted Dumnorix onto the animal and began to tie him down. "Here. You won't fall off, at least. Follow our tracks. Your friend is on his way to Londinium, and we'll be after him. On the off-chance that you both survive, you can meet up with him there."

  
  


   Dumnorix clung to the mane of his horse, heaving, as Septimus mounted and rode after his colleagues without so much as a farewell. 

Dumnorix graviter vulneratis erat. sed vir robustus erat et non mortuus. cum abivisset Septimus, coepit Dumnorix miles sequi*. de Quintum anxius erat.

* to follow  


Stage 2

 

   It seemed to Quintus that in the past few minutes he had forgotten how to ride.The gentle gait of the stolen horse threatened to jostle him off. He tightened his grip on the reins, his fingers slippery with blood. Tears ran down his face and mingled with the ever-present drizzle of this barbarian country. His breathing came so hard from the fight and the riding that he could only choke out "No, no, no," like a broken cithera player. 

  


  


   He tried to remember the maps of Roman territories that he had been forced to study as a boy. His mind churning with confusion and loss, he decided to head for Londinium. Perhaps he would be able to lose his pursuers there. Perhaps he would  become invisible in Londinium, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Roman Empire (well, of this miserable province, anyway) were irresistibly drained. Perhaps he would one day be able to forget Dumnorix. 

iter longus erat ad Londinium. cum pervenisset Quintus, fessus erat et paene mortuus. miles Salvii proximae erant. nesciebat quisquam in Londinio; sed pecuniam habebat. ivit ad hospitium* vilum*.

*inn  
*cheap  


Stage 3

 

   Quintus couldn't sleep in the cheap inn on a lumpy couch, knowing that Dumnorix was journying across the Styx and that Salvius' soldiers were hot on his tail and eager to send him on that same journey. For a moment, he considered setting out on that final trip prematurely; but no. Cogidubnus needed him. And how could he face Barbillus in the underworld without having fulfilled the man's dying wish?   

  


  


   He got out of bed, dressed warmly and went outside quietly. He meant to take a walk, get to know the city. Surely Salvius' men would have camped for the night, and would not be prowling around. 

  


  


   Although he was still limping, Quintus wandered around for several hours. he saw only a few other people. As he went, he began to plan. It would take quite a few days to get to Deva, where Agricola was. It would be difficult to do without being caught and killed by the soldiers-- even more so with only one mind to plan with. _But only one belly to feed_, he thought glumly, and in his reverie of grief and regret, nearly crashed into a horse standing in the middle of the road.

  
  


   Quintus blinked, and realized suddenly that he had not kept track of where his inn was. All concern of that sort, however, was ushed aside by curiosity regarding the horse standing in front of him. It was actually quite a nice one, underneath the layers of grime on its coat. It took him a moment to realize that there was a man attached to he horse, probably because the man was exactly the same shade of road-muck brown as the animal. He was, in fact, literally attached-- his thighs were tied to the horse's back and his fingers tied to the reins. He was slumped forward, face buried in his mount's mane.

  
  


   Quintus quickly untied the man's legs, getting blood on his hands from where the rope had chafed through the man's trousers. Then he snipped the twine that ensured the man's fingers stayed on the reins, and pulled him gently from the horse. He was still breathing, and coughed a little as Quintus tilted up his chin to see his face. 

  
  


   For a moment, Quintus thought that he might faint too.

  
  


   The unconscious man was Dumnorix. 

  
   Quintus Dumnorigem duxit ad hospitium. Dumnorix diu exanimatus erat. postremo, cum animus recipisset, Dumnorix cum Quinto colloquium tres horas habebat.    


Stage 4

 

   In the morning, Septimus' commander was all the more grumpy for the uncomfortable night they had spent camped outside of Londinium. Septimus too had slept badly, thinking of his family sleeping just a short walk away. Still, the thought of the taunts and insults he would receive if he were caught sneaking away to visit Mummy kept him at the camp. 

  


  


   "Alright, boys!" Shouted the commander. "we have one thing to do today and by the gods it had better get done by sundown because I want to be out of this shithole by dark and spending my earnings in a whore-house by the end of this week." Septimus nearly bit through his lip as he stopped himself from throwing that insult to his city back at his commander. "Boys, split up. Find Quintus Caecilius. Whichever man finds him first might get something extra. When you do find him, report back to me. Don't kill him until I say so. Understood?" A murmer of assent. "Okay, go."

  


  


   All of the men jumped on their horses and rode into the city. Septimus almost smiled, watching them go. They may be the brave Roman soldiers and he the wrong-footed barbarian, but he was also the one who knew Londinium like the back of his hand, and he knew exactly where to look. He also had the advantage of knowing what Quintus' horse looked like, while the others had been too busy gloating over Dumnorix to pay attention to the one that got away. 

  


  


   Septimus looked through the stables of three different inns before he recognized the horses; the one he had caught a glimpse of as Quintus rode away, and the other he remembered well from having tied Dumnorix to it. 

  


  


   He wavered, indecisive, before entering the inn. He shrugged. _Work is work_, he thought. He roused the terrified proprietress of the inn and got from her the location of the room she had rented to a man of Quintus' description. He climbed the rotting stairs and knocked violently on the door.

 

   Quintus woke as someone banged on the door loudly. He jumped out of bed, trying to pull on his trousers before he got to the door. Thinking it was the proprietress, he opened his mouth to rebuke her for waking them up so early; but the words died in his mouth when before him stood a Roman soldier dressed like those that had nearly killed both him and Dumnorix.

  


  


   Fear throttled all of Quintus' fancy rhetorical education, and made him babble. 'I am innocent," he said. "as is Dumnorix. We have nothing agianst Salvius-- I mean-- we only wish to-- please!"

  


  


   Dumnorix woke up. "Quintus," he said, sitting up, "What's--" 

  


  


   Then he saw Septimus. His eyes widened. "You! But you-- you won't kill us, will you? You're on our side! You saved me, I remember!" 

   Quintus looked at him in the manner of a concerned doctor at one who, in delirium,  has started babbling of half-crowns, oysters, or some other extraneous subject. Dumnorix looked around wildly.  


   "Sorry to interrupt, boys," said Septimus loudly, "but I've got a job to do. And no, I am not on your side. I said 'if you survive.' I made no promises as to the likelihood of that eventuality."

   Dumnorix tried to leap from he bed, got dizzy, and nearly collapsed. Quintus caught him and held him upright as he spat, "But you saved me!"

   Septimus shrugged. "I still have to report you to my commander. I don't think I was meant to talk to you, just find you and tell him where you are. Still. I expect he'll want to come back and kill you, and do you really think that either of you are going to be able to make an escape in your condition?" Quintus led Dumnorix to sit on the bed with the air of a man defeated. Septimus chuckled a little. "Well, you are in a spot of bother, aren't you," he commented.  


   "Please," said Dumnorix. "We have nothing against you or your employer. We're only trying to help Cogidubnus."  


   An extraordinary change came over Septimus' features. He stared at Quintus and Dumnorix as if seeing them for the first time. Suddenly he cleared his throat, strode all the way into the small room and shut the door. Quintus and Dumnorix looked up at him, terrified.  


   "However," said Septimus quietly, "it just so happens that I know a man who makes his living out of helping people who have gotten themselves into... bothersome spots. And of course it can hardly be helped if, by the time I get back with my commander, the two of you have mysteriously disappeared and we are obliged to carry on our search through the city." He chuckled. "Do you have a wax tablet?"  


   Quintus wordlessly handed one to him. Septimus used his dagger to write on it, then pulled open the door and turned to leave.  


   "Remember," he said. "If you are here when I return, you will die." The door slammed.  


   Quintus handed the tablet to Dumnorix to read as he began to pick up their few belongings. The tablet said:

Sherlock Holmes   
CCVVI B Via Pistrina, Londinium   
Inquisitor Privati   


_ BEING A REPRINT FROM THE REMINISCES OF JOHN H. WATSON, M.D., LATE OF THE ARMY MEDICAL DEPARTMENT _

   In the many years for which I have shared both sleeping- and working-space with my friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes, I had become accustomed to the constant stream of vaguely unsavory characters through our sitting-room. Most of them were native Britons, but there was an occasional smattering of Roman soldiers who had heard of my friend's talents and wished to test them. Most of these were incompetent, unethical and unpleasant, and Holmes soon began to make excuses to them before they had even entered the sitting-room, so as to avoid their patronage.

  


  


   As I stood at the window and watched the two ragged men approach our front door, I wondered what type they would be. They wore ragged trousers and ripped tunics, and were on foot. They carried dirty packs with the air of men who were comfortable with, or at least accustomed to, carrying all of their possessions on their backs. Thus I tried to build up my mental profile of them in the manner of my friend: travelling men, likely criminals, who had been exiled from some wilder part of Britain and perhaps were seeking our assistance in tying up some problems in their home town. Still, at least they were Britons, and not Romans.

  


  


   "Holmes," I called, "What do you make of these men?" 

  
  


   He came to stand by me and I watched his face as he took in their appearance, hoping very much that he would validate my own results. 

  
  


   "The elder man is British," he said, "a man who used to hold considerable power, but has fallen on hard times and was forced to flee in a hurry." I thought about voicing my opinion that he was in exile, but didn't. 

  
  


   "The younger man is Roman," he said. I frowned and squinted, trying to find some indication of this on him. I found none, and Holmes continued: "He comes from a family of considerable wealth, but left his home a few years ago and never returned. He has travelled in Egypt and extensively in Britain, however he does not intend to stay here long."

  
  


   "But what does he want from you, then?"

  
  


   "We shall see," he said briskly as we heard a tap on the door. a few moments later, Ms. Hudson led the two  men into the consulting-room. She stood back from them, casting frightened glances at their dirty, ripped and bloody clothing. I found myself staring as well, for the two were even more scruffy than they had appeared from a distance. Although for the most part their skin was clean, the older man's trousers were ripped off until the knee; he seemed to be in worse condition, his gaunt face and contorted posture making him seem almost dead. 

  
  


   As I stared dumbly, Holmes was greeting them pleasantly and bidding them to sit on the couch (to which Ms. Hudson, had she remained, would certainly have objected.) I came to myself and sat down, watching Holmes linger over a handshake with the older man. Finally, everyone was settled, and Holmes sat back and gazed at them over his fingertips. 

  
  


   "Were they diverted as you made your way here," he asked, "or should we be preparing to entertain some guests with a more agressive agenda shortly?"

  
  


   Both men gave a start. "I beg your pardon?" said the younger.

  
  


   "Well," answered Holmes, " Clearly you are fleeing someone. As you approached, I saw that you walked with the distinctive gait bow-legged gait of men who have just dismounted. There are two possible reasons for you to leave your horses and approach on foot. The first is that you distrust me, and do not want me to judge you either as thieves or as richer than you appear by the calibre of your mounts. The other is that you are being followed by men who recognize your animals, and you would therefore prefer that they stay well away from your actual location. As I am inclined to believe the latter, I commend you on your foresight."

  
  


   For a moment there was silence, then the older man laughed. The laughter turned into coughing. Holmes offered him a glass of water, and he recovered. "You are correct," he said, "and I am glad to have placed our safety in your obviously very capable hands. I am Dumnorix, and this is my friend Quintus. We come seeking your help on the advice of-- well, perhaps Quintus should tell the story." He smiled apologetically. "I am finding myself somewhat out of breath, as you can see that I am recently wounded." He slumped back as if those few sentences had taken a great deal out of him. The man named Quintus smiled and ran his fingers through his companion's hair affectionately before beginning.

  
  


   "My name is Quintus Caecilius. My father died some time ago in the volcanic eruption at Pompeii, of which you may have heard. I managed to escape along with a trusted slave. I travelled for a very long time--"

  
  


   "To Egypt?" I cut in, throwing a somewhat malicious glance at Holmes. 

  
  


   "Yes, among other places," answered Quintus, surprised. Holmes smiled a little and I motioned for Quintus to go on. 

  
  


   "I became good friends with a man named Barbillus. The details are unimportant, but with his dying breath he gave me a mission." At this point he pulled from his pack a dirty and crumpled letter with the seal intact. He handed it to me. "I am to find Barbillus' son Rufus and deliver this letter to him. I know only that he is in Britain somewhere. Unfortunately, once I got here, this--" he tapped the letter and replaced it in his pack-- "became of secondary importance to the issue on which I require your advice today. During mt stay here in Britain, I have made the acquaintance of Dumnrix here and of Cogidubnus, king of the Regnenses. Cogidubnus is now being persecuted by one Salvius, an old enemy of mine and of every honest man's, who wishes to have him executed. Dumnorix and I are, or were, on our way to beg commander Agricola to help Cogidubnus, as I had heard that he is a good man and has often helped the British in the past. Unfortunately, we were waylaid and almost killed by soldiers in Salvius' employ, by whom, as you observed, we are still being followed. Fortunately one of their number feels loyalty to Cogidubnus, and... although he could not, of course, prevent his unit from seeking to kill us, he recommended that if we came to you, he may... forget our whereabouts for long enough for you to help us escape and be on our way to Deva undetected. I'm afraid we don't have much coin, but we'll give you all that remains of what we have. Unfortunately we are both wounded and weak, Dumnorix worse than myself."

  
  


   We all looked at Dumnorix, who was looking positively skeletal. Holmes drummed his fingers, then smiled. 

  
  


   "No fee will be necessary," he said. "Your dilemma is somewhat outside of my usual practice, which usually requires considerably more crawling around in nasty spaces, meeting nasty people, and the like. Whereas I think--" he stood up and walked to the door- "that this matter can be solved quite easily by a pleasant chat over a spot of supper." He called for Ms. Hudson, who some little time later brought us food and drink. 

  
  


   Holmes appeared pleased that Dumnorix and Quintus ate ravenously, and waited until they seemed satisfied to launch himself into their problem.  Addressing Dumnorix, he asked, "How many men are there following you, and when did you see them last?"

  


   "I believe there are about thirty. Their commander is Belimicus, chief of the Cantiaci as I am of the Regnenses. As for where we saw them last, it was a very long way west of here. I do, however, know where they are now. Our friend among them led them to our inn as we made our way here. By now, they have probably spread out over the city again, looking for us."

  


   Holmes' brow contracted. "And one of them knows where you are?"

  


   Dumnorix sighed. "Well, yes. But I trust him. He saved my life. Quintus thought I was dead and got away, but this soldier saved me."

  


   "An admirable action, and I am exceedingly glad that he chose to do so. However, it is no guarantee of your present safety.  I expect that we will be receiving visitors withing the next half-hour. By that time, the two of you will be unrecognizable and on your way north, and Watson and I will perhaps be engaged in the perusal of some of the latest poetry and high culture from the venerable capital of Rome. Right now, we must apply ourselves to finding suitable disguises for both of you. I will also tell one of the Irregulars to fetch your horses; you are betrayed, or will be soon, and so the convenience of having them near far outweighs the prudence of keeping them at a distance. Watson, pour the men some tea, won't you?"

  


   He leaped from the room excitedly, leaving me alone with Quintus and Dumnorix.

  


   As I poured the tea, I saw Quintus cast a worried look at Dumnorix, who seemed very nervous.

  


   "Quintus," he said quietly, "I don't know if I can--"

  


   "I know."

  


   The men fell silent as I handed them the tea. They looked quite bemused. Quintus tasted it, the frowned.

  


   "Ah," I said, "I see. Yes, I do apologize for the anachronism of this beverage. Unfortunately, it won't arrive here for another sixteen hundred years or so, but we Londoners really don't like to let a little thing like impossibility get in between us and our tea."

  


   They drank the tea.

  


   "What is an Irregular?" ventured Quintus.

  


   "Oh," I answered vaguely, "just some small boys that Holmes likes to keep around." Dumnorix looked at me skeptically. "...for purposes of, ah, detection, of course," I added hastily. We lapsed into silence again. The men began to have a quiet conversation between themselves, so I drank my tea and stared at the ceiling absently, so as to not intrude unduly on their private matters. 

  


  


  


Stage 5

Dumnorix: invalidus sum, mi Quinte. iter facere non possum.  
Quintus: nobis fugiendum est. milites proximes sunt.  


  


Dumnorix: necesse est tibi solus ire. manebo in Londinio. milites me credunt mortuus. certus* sum.   
Quintus: cum te manere volo. et de via ad Devam nescio .   
Dumnorix: necesse est tibi ducem* sanum invenire. 

*safe  
*guide

  


_ BEING A REPRINT FROM THE REMINISCES OF JOHN H. WATSON, M.D., LATE OF THE ARMY MEDICAL DEPARTMENT _

  


   Holmes bounded back into the room carrying a chest of clothes. He placed it on the table and explained, "My primary source of income is detection. In this capacity, I am often required to disguise myself, and have discovered something of an aptitude for it. I can, in a matter of minutes, make you two up to be--"

  
  


   "I cannot," cut in Dumnorix. Holmes took a step back, then sighed. 

  
  


   "I suspected that this might happen. I agree that your health may not permit you to make such a long journey." He paused for a moment, seemingly making a decision. "And I extend an invitation to you to reside here on Baker Street until Quintus' no-doubt triumphant return." Dumnorix beamed and thanked Holmes effusively. 

  
  


   Holmes turned to Quintus. "You, however, are Roman. Do you know the way to Deva? Will you make it on your own?"  
   All this time, I had been feeling steadily more uncomfortable. Ever since these two desperate men had entered our house, I had nothing to aid them but pour tea; and I suddenly felt that I must offer to help them in any way I could.

  


   "Holmes," I said, "I know the way to Deva."

  


   All three of them turned to look at me.

  


   "Are you sure?" said Quintus cautiously. "I couldn't... I mean, I don't want to impose. I gather it's a fairly long way."

  


   Holmes smiled largely and slapped me at the back. "It means the world, Watson. We are all greatly in your debt. In that case, we must alter our plans for disguises. Unfortunately Watson is easily recognizable, and it is hardly worth the effort to disguise him. No, I'm afraid the only suitable way for Watson to leave Londinium would be in the company of a beautiful young woman, with whom, it is presumed, he is visiting some far-flung relative or another..."

  


   I saw Quintus go scarlet up to his ears. "Er..." he said.

  


   Holmes smiled. "It is not so very difficult," he said. "I have done it myself, when the occasion demanded it. You will be a Roman woman. The gossip-mongers will love to see Watson with, as it will no doubt be rumored,  a wealthy Roman heiress. This heiress traveled far from her home to support and encourage the brave Roman soldiers valiantly keeping order in these wild parts... but she was seduced by a charming and exotic barbarian, and is now being taken by him on a tour of Brittanis the likes of which was never before experienced by a Roman. These gossipers will, of course, forget that there is nothing to see in Brittania save Roman soldiers, and Britons trying to keep away from Roman soldiers. No matter. You will be splendid, I assure you."

  


   I have commented before now upon Holmes' tendency towards the dramatic, but I must admit that even I saw the plausibility in his prediction, and for a moment it almost seemed rational for Quintus to take, blushingly, the women's articles that Holmes was handing to him. I smiled despite myself at the sight of my soon-to-be traveling companion holding a pile of women's clothing.

  


   "Perhaps," said Holmes, "We should allow Dumnorix to help his friend put on his new clothes."

  


   Holmes and I withdrew to the corridor to wait. From inside, we heard nervous laughter and the rustle of cloth.

  


   "I really am very much obliged to you for having taken this case in hand," he said quietly. "It is quite impossible for me to leave Londinium at the moment, but it is quite clear that Quintus would not make it to Deva without a Roman guide. You really are very kind."

  


   I noticed that his gaze was not directed towards me, but instead through the narrow crack between door and frame, and into the room where Quintus was dressing.

  


   "Jealous, Holmes?" I asked.

  


   He turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. "Not at all, my dear Watson," he answered. "I do rather think that I got the better half of this deal."

  


  


  


Stage 6

  


  
   _We cannot go home without Quintus Caecilius,_ thought Septimus. _Soon he will be far away from here. What was I thinking? I betrayed my employer. The money from the job feeds Mama._

  


   Slowly he approached his commander.

  


   "Belimicus," he said, "Sir, clearly they have fled the inn. I think I have an idea of where they may have gone."

  


   Thirty Roman soldiers turned their war-horses towards Baker Street.

_BEING A REPRINT FROM THE REMINISCES OF JOHN H. WATSON, M.D., LATE OF THE ARMY MEDICAL DEPARTMENT_

Quintus tripped quite a few times as the four of us made our way out onto the street, laden with the small bags that I had made up for us.  The Irregular who had fetched the horses stood ready with them. Dumnorix politely pushed me out of the way to help Quintus onto his horse as Holmes and I made space for the packs.

  


   Suddenly, we began to hear the racket of a sizable number of horses approaching, accompanied by the sound of slamming doors and children's protests as parents yanked them inside. Holmes froze.

  


   "Go," he said. "Quickly. As long as they don't see you I can feign ignorance. Dumnorix!" He spun around wildly, but Dumnorix was nowhere to be seen.

  


   At that moment, the Roman commander came into view. He conferred briefly with the man beside him, then beckoned his men onwards. I grabbed Quintus' reigns as well as my own, spinning our horses around and galloping down the street away from the Romans. Quintus followed, his body twisted around to watch the scene we were leaving behind. I turned around as well; the soldiers had been slowed nearly to a walk by a gaggle of street children. The Baker Street Irregulars had surrounded the Romans and were dodging their blows as they took the opportunity to steal from the packs full of food.

  


   I smiled and led the way towards the city gates.

  


  


  


Stage 7

  
cum fugerent Quintus et Watson, Tumultuarii Viae Pistrinae milites cingerunt* ut milites distraherent. abscondit* Holmes in villa, Dumnorix in via. mox deserunt milites. Quintum non cognoscerat.

* surround   
*hide

   Once all of the soldiers were gone, Holmes went out into the street to survey the damage. People were cautiously allowing their children to go back outside and the Irregulars were dispersing, gleefully comparing the goods that they had stolen from the soldiers.  
  

  


   Dumnorix was standing in the middle of the street, staring after Quintus and Watson. Holmes slipped an arm around him and began guiding him towards the house.  
   

  


   "They'll be alright," he said quietly. "Watson is an ex-soldier himself, and he knows London better than anyone but me. They're probably out of the city by now. Now-- why don't you join me for some tea?"

  


  


   Although he was a Briton, Dumnorix had never quite gotten used to the strange, vile and massively anachronistic beverage that the Londoners called "tea".

  


  


   He decided to join Holmes for one anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> There's one (to my knowledge, there are probably more) major fail in this fic, and it involves geography: When Quintus and Dumnorix are waylaid on the way from Aquae Sulis (Bath) to Deva (Chester), London is definately not the closest available pit stop. It is in fact significantly out of the way, although I suppose if there weren't many cities around and they hadn't travelled that far north yet, it might be a logical place to go. Maybe. Actually, a more logical choice would have been Cardiff, in which the Silures would have just been conquered and Cardiff established as a Roman fort thingy. But maybe I'm terrible at geography and just made that up, because how awesomecracktastic would it be if Quintus and Dumnorix showed up at Torchwood? And then the ridiculous anachronisms in this story wouldn't matter as much! Although there is the problem of the Bristol channel, and finding a ship to take you across it on short notice with a bunch of soldiers chasing after you and trying to kill you. So maybe not.  
>  This was meant to be way shorter than it was, and have way more Latin. Please do correct my Latin, it needs it. Or just tell me if it's intelligible at all.


End file.
